The storm and the dark
by Glitterdune
Summary: Roman Reigns/Dean Ambrose slash fic. A story about a storm and the seduction of Roman Reigns. (Dean Ambrose always seems to get what he wants.) Pre-threesome fic! Warnings: slash, porn & talk of threesomes and dubcon.
1. The calm before

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of their respective owners. I'm not associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any copyrighted material or characters featured in this fic. No copyright infringement is intended, yadda yadda yadda.

1: The calm before  


The storm has been building all week. Since the blistering heat of Monday there hasn't been a breath of wind but each day the clouds gather, sulking low over the rooftops and brooding outwards from themselves in deep blossoms and billows, grey and white edged.

In the evenings their heavy forms against the crimson sky puts Roman in mind of plumes of smoke, billowing from some fire that smoulders just out of sight, stirring itself into a slow and hidden blaze. This weather is affecting his mood, and not for the better. He is irritable beneath it, impatient; sullen in the heat and stifled by the pressure.

And as for the other? Dean Ambrose does not enjoy waiting (not for the storm to break, not for anything), and he has been preoccupied of late. He has turned his gaze inwards to examine something new and hidden; turning himself away from Roman in the process. He broods lately over some unspoken idea, some unknowable desire that has swept in with the storm and taken root in his thoughts. Or perhaps it was there all along. Perhaps the storm merely called it, the same way that it calls forth small shoots from the soil. Wherever it came from, it now fixes his attention. All week he has been avoiding Roman.

And the roots of the thing are beginning to show themselves through the soil. Dean is restless around him; agitated – around Roman and nobody else – _agitated, _though he never was before, as though his very presence now stirs him to turbulence. Roman can only presume that something has happened over the weekend. Something between Dean and Seth, perhaps – he knows they're sleeping together (although this is a relatively new development), and arrangements like theirs are always fragile, in the beginning. So perhaps there was a discussion about him. Perhaps there was an _argument_ about him – and god only knows there's enough tension between them all to provoke jealousy, should the winds be inclined to blow that way.

But whatever has happened, there is a challenge in Dean's eyes where there wasn't one before. His words are newly weighed with some obscure meaning and a quiet kind of aggression. There is a subtext here that Roman cannot immediately decipher. Dean wants something from him, that much is clear – _demands _it from him – is asking for something somehow all the time beneath the jokes and the small talk and the banter.

And Roman believes he can guess at his meaning, even if he cannot understand the language that it comes cloaked in. Another game. The serious kind. But frankly he has little patience for this sort of seduction (if seduction this is), and he will not rise to the bait. He waits. Watches. Content to let the thing play out on its own.

After all, there is no point in making the first move – that would mean trying to second guess Dean Ambrose. And that is a dangerous game to even _begin_ to play; his intentions are many and subtle, his motivations obscure and well hidden – threaded like pearls amongst the false and the true. There is no mistaking the attraction between Dean and him, but a deep rift is being carved between them and Roman will not play at crossing it. That is a dangerous move, and one that is entirely Dean's to make.

No. Roman can wait for the storm to break itself, and he stands silent and patient beneath the weight of it (although he looks often at the sky). It is Dean who does not enjoy waiting – cannot wait, in fact. Perhaps it is not in his nature (perhaps he will not wait to find out) but certain it is: if the rain will not fall at his prompting, he will break the storm himself.

And clearly he's losing patience, because on Wednesday he allows Roman to walk in on him and Seth in the locker room. They're still in their Shield gear (although Seth's gloves lie discarded on the floor) and Dean has him pressed up against the wall by his wrists, murmuring something into his ear as Roman turns the corner and stops short in surprise.

There is no mistaking what's been going on. Seth's lips are an obscene red, bruised looking and fucked out; his eyes dark with heavy lidded arousal; his eyelashes spiked black and wet with tears. Roman _stares. _And desire rolls low and hot and treacherous within him at the thought that rises unbidden, of Seth on his knees in this place. Parting those lips for Dean to push his cock between, shoving so far down his throat that he chokes and drools and struggles to breathe around it. He shakes the thought from his mind with some effort, and glares at them both.

Seth is grinding himself wantonly up against Dean's knee, shoved between his legs, but he stops dead when he notices Roman standing there. His eyes fix upon him, wide and blank and uncomprehending, and for a second they just stare at each other. Then a cold panic sets in and he gasps and struggles in Dean's grip, hissing something urgently in his ear. But Dean just grins and leans against him, pinning him still with the weight of his body.

"Did I say you could speak yet, you little cocksucker?" His voice is rough with arousal, and raised for Roman's benefit.

But Seth is clearly disconcerted by this situation, and after another brief, frantic struggle he manages to yank his wrists out of Dean's grasp. Dean pulls back and slaps him hard across the face, breathing heavily.

The shock of the sound rings loudly around the locker room and finds an echo in the seat of Roman's pounding heart. He can do nothing but stare, fists clenched by his sides, aching with something between rage and desire. Because although Seth cries out (and Roman burns _fury_ at the sound), his whole being unmistakeably cries _pleasure_ – his eyes huge and dark with desire – trained dazedly on Dean, now, and he licks his lips when Dean presses him gently back against the wall. He doesn't need to be pinned, now, he stands quietly with his hands against the wall – his chest heaving, not daring to look at Roman.

Dean is made of stronger stuff. He turns his head slowly to consider Roman from the corner of his eye.

"Oh. Roman," he says, lazily. "My bad. I guess I didn't hear you come in."

He tilts him a slow, dirty smile. And the fucker must have known he was coming here – must have arranged this, _timed _this to mess with him. To mess with Seth too, by the look of things,who is flushed and twisting hot with humiliation while Dean isn't even pretending to look surprised.

Roman meets his gaze darkly_, _not trusting himself to speak. If he spoke, he has no idea what he would say. If he moved, he has no idea what he would be moved to _do_. But his silence is apparently reassuring enough for Dean, whose smile slowly grows at the look in his eyes. Seth's gaze flickers shyly over to him too, and slides uncertainly away again. Dean, sensing this, turns back to him immediately.

"Where are you looking?" he murmurs quietly. "Huh? What, you want something else now? You just had my dick down your throat and you're still fucking hungry?"

Seth shakes his head, his face flushed and anguished.

"How is it that I can tell you not to speak, and you still manage to fucking lie to me?" Dean drags a finger roughly across Seth's mouth, tracing those bruised, swollen lips. And (to Roman's displeasure) Seth parts his lips without even being fucking prompted, his eyes fluttering closed as Dean pushes a finger into the wet heat of his mouth.

"_Suck_ it," Dean hisses, and turns his head to glance with amusement at Roman when he obeys, eyebrows raised in mock incredulity– his gaze hot and taunting as he fucks his finger obscenely in and out of Seth's mouth.

And Roman's dick fucking throbs at the sight: Seth, flushed and ragged against the wall, allowing this to be done to him, complying with this, fucking _enjoying _it. And whatever Roman's expression is, it obviously encourages Dean because he pulls back and slides that finger roughly over Seth's lips again until they are slick and shining under the locker room lights. And then he saunters over, lean and predatory, leaves Seth shaking against the wall.

And his eyes are ash-pale but full of darkness, sleet-cold but full of heat as he approaches and stands so close that Roman can feel the hunger sweeping off of him in waves. He can smell the damp, spicy scent of his shampoo, clean above the scent of cigarettes and sex. Dean runs his eyes slowly down Roman's body; pausing pointedly at the outline of his dick pressing hard against the fabric of his pants, aching with frustration. He looks up at Roman from under his eyelashes. His smile is a wicked, ravenous thing.

"Seth," he murmurs, holding Roman's gaze. "Come over here."

Seth's gaze flickers over to them apprehensively.

"I wanna show Roman that thing you do."

And his smile makes him look for a moment truly diabolical, like some dishevelled demon flung far from hell, the morning star still blazing and dying in the light of his eyes.

Seth _stares,_ aghast, his face pale. His eyes are dark with desire and unease; lit from within by an anxiety that threatens to flare itself into bright panic. And despite his own desire, Roman feels his insides twist unpleasantly at the sight. These games of Dean's. Always at someone's expense, these dark and dangerous games; always gleaming on the knife edge of the permissible. Always ending with someone hurt. And clearly Seth has been told nothing about this – his confusion makes that much clear – and really, this is not fair. It is not fair to either of them, Roman thinks. It is not fair to any of them.

"_Seth_." Dean glances at him sharply, and Seth sways immediately to his feet. But he is trembling, dazed, and Roman cannot stand for this – cannot bear to see him brought to such confusion – suddenly cannot stand this game any longer.

"No," he growls, and it is difficult – and he wants, badly, to lay hands on Dean, wants to hurt him, pin him, silence him, _fuck _him, the depravity, the audacity of the man – the twisted, beautiful motherfucker -

"I'm going back to the hotel." He directs this to Dean, his gaze dark and steady despite the storm that rages inside of him. It is a reproach. A warning. It is, above all other things, an invitation.

But Dean just shrugs indifferently, his gaze cold and sardonic. And Seth sags weakly against the wall, staring wordlessly after him as Roman shoulders his bag and walks away.

Outside, the sky is blackened and blurred with dark storm clouds, rain–heavy and threatening (promising) thunder and lightning, later. A sharp and bitter wind has stirred itself into being and begun to thrash through the trees, and it will close in, later, and scream until the storm breaks. And Roman walks back to the hotel, silent beneath the black clouds; patient, although he looks often at the sky.


	2. The storm before

Authors notes:

This fic is finished now but I'm working on some other stuff in the meantime that I hope to finish soon! If you're looking for more Shield slash, I highly recommend you check out the works of the infamous and frankly scurrilous mxjoyride and IrishCreamTruffle. Both absolutely fantastic writers whose fics completely define the Ambrose/Reigns/Rollins slash fandom for me. Mxjoyride's "For Real" series is what made me start writing slash fic again after 10 years out of the game! And her fics are only getting hotter (check out her latest! Don't bother with pants.) IrishCreamTruffle's fantastic threesome fic "Low" is both my favourite character study of the guys _and _my favourite threesome fic fullstop. And I've read a lot of threesome fics. Uh, just for research you understand. Into punctuation and so forth. Sentence structure. Strictly technical reasons. LET'S MOVE ON.

2: the storm before

That night there is lightning in the clouds, and the illuminations show the storm to run deep and tumultuous, a nebula without stars. When the light dies the moon is blotted out entirely and the eye cannot tell the storm from the sky, or discover which fills the other. But the storm breaks at last, late into the night and the rain is long overdue. It comes hissing from the sky with drenching fury, drowning sound, the roads wet and glittering, the trees held low and dripping black in the streetlights outside Roman's hotel window.

It rains against his windowpanes. He does not sleep. And at two in the morning there is a hammering at his door; a furious knocking, ceaseless and unrestrained. He knows exactly who it is. And he does not hesitate even for a second – he is there at the door – for if Dean knocks (a rare thing, at the best of times) Roman will answer.

_Dean_.

Completely soaked through with this rain and past caring, his hair slick and dripping tangles across his eyes. He shoves unceremoniously past Roman and storms into the dark hotel room with a hand outstretched, sweeping the books and the keys and the cards from the hall table as he goes. He knocks the telephone receiver from the hook and it swings loosely by its own cable, the dial tone purring low through the darkness behind him.

And Roman, frowning, hears glass breaking as he closes the door behind them – he has smashed the vase of flowers by the window and stands now on the sodden carpet, waiting cool and insolent amongst the wilting blooms and the gleaming shards of glass.

Roman moves towards him through the dark of the room. He should be angry. And true, some emotion is blossoming dark above his heart, and its roots grip him to the point of pain – but this is not anger. Anger is an impulse, after all – an instinct, a wild and fleeting thing. You cannot own it. You cannot deny it. And this is no species of fury, this black and inconvenient flower; this is something else – something that Roman has allowed to flourish despite himself. A thing that he owns, a thing that he denies. And perhaps some part of it (_the colour – the heat_) has reached his eyes, because Dean takes pause and looks at him curiously as he nears.

Roman takes hold of the dangling phone receiver as he passes, and hangs it up with a click. The room feels oddly quiet now, with the dial tone silenced and their eyes upon each other. But they are far from silence here, with the rain against the windows and the wind against the sky and their eyes upon each other.

"_So_." Dean sleeks his dripping hair back from his eyes to stare at him lazily. "How long did you wanna let this thing drag on for, Roman?"

A meaningless question – a lure_, _if it is anything at all. Roman does not bother to answer it. These moods of Dean's will blaze themselves to fury and burn themselves to ashes in the space of a heartbeat if they are handled correctly. And there is an art to this; a safe path that runs cool into the very heart of the fire and Roman knows the way – although he never learnt it, and he was not born knowing it. It is some quality of understanding that Dean provokes in him and it is simple: as Dean grows wild, so Roman grows calm.

Perhaps it is a strange thing; that the worst of the man should bring out the best in him, but so it is. His fury grants him serenity, his madness invokes his reason, and his weaknesses (and they are many, a garden grown wild) – his weaknesses make Roman stronger. In many ways, stronger.

"How _long_?" Dean snaps, voice raised (and there is the blaze – but already it falters –) "You want us to carry on without you? Or what do you need, Roman, you need written permission? Did you want me to get it signed in fucking triplicate for you?"

"Permission?" echoes Roman, raising an eyebrow. An unlikely virtue to call upon."Is that what you want to talk about?"

Dean smiles, slow and taunting. "_No_."

He lets this hang between them in the silence until Roman, irritated, takes a step towards him.

"The _locker room_, Dean?" He says, bluntly. "Anyone could have walked in. Anyone. Did Seth agree to that? Did you even tell him about it?"

Dean's eyes gleam in the darkness. "I don't need to tell Seth _anything_."

Arrogance. _Insolence. _Anger paces dark and quiet within Roman and something else too, glimpsing dangerous, a tiger through tall grass. And he wants many things in that moment, a great many things. He should not want even half of them. But this is Dean's doing. It is the form his influence takes; this uncanny ability of his to call forth the hidden, to invoke the unbidden – to name the nameless without ever resorting to words. It is at least half of his charm.

Roman wonders whether it was the same for Seth; this first seduction (for this _is _a seduction – even a successful one, so far, although how it will end remains to be seen.) How did Dean ensnare him so thoroughly? Did he draw the truth to the surface half as gently? Did he persuade –? Did he even _ask –? _But Roman knows them both too well, _far_ too well to be able to endure this speculation.

And he stirs at the thought despite himself (and it is anger and arousal entwined, inseparable), of Seth opening his door to this man. At what he must allow to be asked of him (and surely he allows everything, _everything – _for doesn't that colour bleed deep through his coat? If he gives anything, must he not give it _all?) _And they lack restraint, he realises with frustration, _both of them, _fucking _equally. _It is no wonder that Dean is here tonight, asking for his cooperation in this. It is no wonder that they have come begging for his involvement; they need his control – they have none of it themselves.

"I was just with him, actually," Dean says conversationally, and moves towards him in the gloom.

His voice is steady, but he is not. His movement is the pacing madness of a caged animal, and there is an agitation in his eyes that Roman does not see often. Apprehension. Unusual, for Dean. It looks good on him.

"We were just having a little conversation about earlier. I needed to make a couple things clear to him that maybe he didn't appreciate fully... I mean, you know what _Seth _is like. Or maybe you don't. But he's good now. He fucking _gets_ it now, y'know what I mean?"

Roman grits his teeth. He can feel himself getting hard, getting _off _on this, although there's nothing more than insinuation here. But Dean's eyes are taunting him, speaking _volumes,_ and it's all too easy to imagine how their conversation went.

Roman gazes darkly at him as Dean approaches, and stands so close that Roman can smell the rain in his hair and the damp, green scent of outdoors on his clothes, clinging wet to his skin. The storm is on him – it has come into the room with him – it has sunk right down to his bones.

"What are you here for?" Roman asks, quietly.

But he _knows _Dean. He is here to push once more at these boundaries of theirs – and how many times must the lines between them be redrawn? They are barely laid down before one or the other must pull them taut again. And now this alliance, this coalition, this _friendship_ is no longer enough for him. Give him an inch and the man will take more than a mile – he'll take everything, _everything_. And he is here now to take far more than his due. He is here to take all that he can.

"You know what I'm here for," Dean replies. He looks searchingly up at Roman, trying to read his expression in the darkness.

"You do know what I'm here for, don't you Rome?"

But Roman's patience with this game has run out. He pulls Dean in by the hips and kisses him hard, crushing their lips together and swallowing down the low, startled sound that he makes against his mouth. And Dean starts kissing him back, his body wet and cold against Roman's as he pushes up close to him. His kisses are as sharp as the light in his eyes; as sharp as his smile – so fierce and keen that they almost _hurt_, and Roman is stung almost to distraction with the pleasure of them. Dean's tongue slides coaxingly along his lower lip; traces a slick, demanding line across the seam of his mouth. But Roman does things entirely at his own pace. He slides his hands down his back; smoothing along the wet lines of his t-shirt – kisses him with a steady, purposeful heat until he's ready to lick his way into his mouth.

Dean tastes like lightning. Like electricity – the bright coppery taste of blood, unmistakeable, although he isn't bleeding anywhere. Roman muses darkly on the implications of this as he works his hands under that t-shirt to grasp the cool, wet skin of his hips. And when Dean pushes against his grip he _growls_ and holds him still. He's not finished yet. He's aware that he's gripping him hard enough to leave marks, but his heart is pounding and he suddenly doesn't care if the whole damn world sees the bruises he leaves, if everyone knows exactly what they mean. He kisses the taste of blood away from Dean's mouth until he pants and shoves against him, making pleased, hungry noises.

Dean laughs breathlessly when they pull apart, his eyes very bright; very wild. Roman traces small, soothing circles across the damp skin of his hipbones, but he can feel Dean trembling beneath his hands with ill–restrained desire.

"You taste like blood," Roman murmurs, and there is a question in his eyes. There is an answer there, too, if Dean cares to parse it – but Dean is absorbed, for the moment, with collecting himself back together. And his eyes are beginning to assume that familiar wintry light, like ice forming upon the surface of cold and broken water.

"Yeah, that's him." He smiles, sardonically. "What did you expect? I don't suck his dick, if that's what you're wondering."

And that's really not what Roman's wondering right now – the very _last _thing he's wondering –

"I let him suck on mine, though," he breathes, "if he's _good_."

And he kisses Roman so viciously that it really does hurt this time_, _kisses him hard enough to bruise both of their mouths as he shoves him roughly up against the wall.

The impact judders through Roman's body, rousing anger. The fucking audacity of the man – to attempt such violence with him – to even _consider_ this approach. He grabs Dean roughly by the shoulders and slams him so hard against the wall that his teeth rattle.

"You _don't_ get to do that to me," he growls, glaring down at him.

Dean struggles against him but Roman is taller and stronger and calmer – it is easy to keep him pinned there, although this hold is probably going to leave bruises too. Dean thrashes in his grip – drags his nails viciously down his back, biting hard at his collarbone and then soft at his jaw – and eventually falls back against the wall, panting and laughing, his eyes ablaze.

"Get your hands off me, Rome – " he demands, but his fingers are curling into his belt loops, and he pulls Roman hard up against him.

"Get your fucking hands _off_ of me –" but he's grinding his hips up against him, slow and dirty, letting him feel just how hard his dick is as he gazes up at him, his eyes dark and sultry.

"Yeah? You gonna talk to me like that?" Roman murmurs, inordinately pleased, and shifts so that his own aching dick presses right up against Dean's. "I'm not Seth."

"Oh, shit..." Dean groans and rocks up against him wantonly, grinding their erections together. "You're _really_ not. If I wanted to fuck you right now, _you'd_ probably be able to stop me."

Some dark emotion shudders in Roman's chest as if stirring in its sleep. It is something far too close to desire for his liking – an impulse he barely recognises as his own – although give Dean the chance and he will find it, wake it, name it.

"That's not funny," Roman grits, digging his fingers in.

"It kind of is, actually." And those eyes gleam up at him tauntingly; his smile very sharp. "You should fucking see it."

But Roman's endurance breaks at this – he feels something swell and stretch and fucking _snap _inside of him as he grabs Dean by the front of his t–shirt and yanks him deeper into the room.

Authors notes:

(Tea break! Go make some fucking tea!)


	3. The dark before

Authors notes:

(GOT YOUR TEA? GOOD. LET'S DO THIS!)

3: The dark before

Roman shoves him roughly back towards the sofa, meaning to throw him down on it, but Dean hooks his leg swiftly around him and they fall heavily together. Dean writhes beneath him. They scuffle heatedly for a moment on the sofa, hands rough and clutching, twisting in hair, yanking at wrists, panting and fighting each other off. And then Dean's arm works beneath him, his leg twisting just so – and somehow, wrenching, yanking, Dean pulls himself on top of Roman. His body is hot and damp, pinning him down hard against the sofa.

And the first thing he does (the clever, _beautiful _sonofabitch) is lean down and kiss Roman, so eager and trembling sincere that the anger dies on Roman's lips in a second. He lies quiet and charmed, for the moment; allows Dean to thread his fingers through his hair, to press soft, searching kisses to his lips and jaw, allows him to hook his legs slyly around Roman's and lock their legs tightly together.

It is a pin that Roman could easily break, if he wanted to. He could – he doesn't – and Dean laughs breathlessly into the crook of his neck before pulling himself up to look at him properly.

"You're soaked," Roman murmurs, his fingers stroking lightly at the damp hem of his t-shirt.

"I got _rained_ on," Dean returns easily, and grinds his hips against Roman for emphasis.

"You're getting _me _soaked."

Dean hesitates for a second before peeling off his wet t–shirt in one motion and tossing it aside. When he looks back there is a trace of uncertainty in his eyes; recognition, perhaps, that this gesture is obedience. Submission. And god, it _is_. It lends an almost vulnerable light to his eyes. It kind of makes Roman want to flip him over and pin him down and methodically pull away everything that overshadows it.

But for now he merely shifts his gaze down Dean's body; lingering appreciatively over the damp, muscled expanse of his chest. The sheer line of his collarbone. The rain-darkened hollows of his hipbones. Their legs are still twined together, and Dean's hands are braced on his shoulders, pinning him down.

"Is this how you hold _him_ down?" Roman asks, low and dangerous.

"Why? You jealous?" Dean laughs, pulling at Roman's t-shirt until he sits up enough to strip it off and throw it aside. "Scared I'll fuck him up before you get the chance to play with him?"

Roman gazes up at him, his eyes dark, allows himself to be pinned a little longer. And _god_ but Dean is beautiful in this moment, in the storm and the dark. This dangerous, beguiling man, his gaze lit and shadowed with amusement. And he's sliding his hands tentatively down Roman's arms, tracing the dark lines of his tattoo, circling his wrists lightly. Easing hesitantly into the palm of his hand.

"Is that what you two do?" Roman asks, quietly. "Play?"

"_No,_" murmurs Dean. He leans down and kisses him hard.

Roman can feel the full, hot length of Dean's dick grinding down against his own, and the friction is sheer pleasure – rough and maddening – too much and _not enough_ through the denim of their jeans. His hands thread into Dean's hair and clench hard, dragging him deeper into the kiss until Dean groans against his mouth and starts thrusting desperately down against him.

And it could end like this. It could so easily end like this, with Dean grinding himself roughly off on top of him until they both lose control. But losing control isn't really Roman's thing. Least of all to Dean Ambrose. He grabs his hips and holds him still, putting a stop to that delicious, maddening friction. Dean doesn't like this one fucking bit. He bites angrily at Roman's mouth and puts sudden pressure into the leglock; tensing and twisting so that pain sears through Roman's muscles, sharp and vicious. And biting is one thing, but there must be limits – and fucking _submission holds _is one of them – and Roman shoves him roughly off of him with a snarl. Dean falls promptly off the sofa onto the floor and swears loudly, sitting up to glare up at him in annoyance.

Roman just sits up on the sofa, leaning against the back cushions and stretching his aching limbs casually.

"Get up here." Roman crooks his finger at him, his gaze dark and indulgent.

And Dean's eyes are blazing, white-hot and very hard to read but he gets to his feet and straddles Roman slowly, holding eye contact the whole time. Roman grasps his hips and drags him in close, arranges him roughly in his lap so that their dicks press against each other again through their jeans.

Dean shoves him immediately back against the sofa cushions and kisses him like he _needs _it _– _making quiet, rough noises into his mouth and grinding down against him. Roman grabs two handfuls of hair and holds him off, pulls a slim, dark distance between their lips.

"_What_? You think I'm fucking lying, Roman? I might play with him, but that doesn't make it a _game_–"

He pulls against Roman's grip, trying to shove in close for another kiss.

"He loves me – he _begs _me. He'll definitely beg _you._" He laughs, panting, his gaze bright and pleased – "and he already fucking loves you."

And there it is again, that slow turning in Roman's chest, most curious, a tiger treading deep water. His touch is suddenly, helplessly gentle; fingers loosening in Dean's hair; sleeking it back from his eyes the better to look at him.

"And what about you?" Roman asks, quietly.

Dean hesitates – fixes him with an incredulous, searching look.

"You _know_ I already love you," he murmurs roughly after a beat, and he flushes as he says it.

Roman pulls him close and kisses him for a long moment; this savage comrade, this fiercest of allies -

"That's not what I was asking," he deadpans, when they pull apart.

"Fucking liar," breathes Dean, delighted, and he drags his nails hard along his hips, scratching a trail of long red marks. "You're a fucking _liar, _Roman."

And Roman's stomach dips pleasantly as he twists away, standing up to slip out of the rest of his sodden clothes. Then he's shoving gracelessly back into his lap, all heat and desire, his dick hard and flushed against his stomach.

Roman curls a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him in possessively. "I'll say it back, if you like. It's true."

Dean laughs shakily into the crook of his neck, shakes his head, his fingers clenching hard in Roman's hair –

"And I was actually asking whether you'd _beg _me." Roman slides his hands down the heat of his back, stroking over his damp hips and lower, cupping the smooth curve of his ass and _squeezing_, spreading him open –

"I don't fucking beg_. _That's Seth's job." Dean's tongue laves a slick, hot trail up his throat, teeth grazing at the angle of his jaw, pressing hard, sucking kisses there.

Roman slides his other hand against Dean's dick; strokes lightly with his fingertips and then firmly with his palm, drawing a low moan from his lips. He grasps him – slides a thumb firmly through the slick precome at the head of his cock, rubbing slow, wet circles with the pad of his thumb until Dean snarls and then whines; twisting his hips up into the tight heat of his fist. Roman's mouth runs dry at the sensation: the full hot length of him throbbing in his grip, already leaking with arousal, his hands clenched tightly in Roman's hair as though to keep them from shaking.

He starts panting when Roman's hand starts working him; pumping him nice and hard and fast like he needs it – he pants with his mouth open and his tongue showing, pink and wet and fucking tempting. Roman pushes a finger into his mouth, slides it coaxingly against that tongue until Dean relents, glaring, wraps his mouth around it and sucks until it's slick with spit.

And then Roman pulls it out with an obscene sound, and reaches back to cup his ass again in one hand, and he strokes that finger slickly across his entrance, once, _hard. _Dean jerks bodily in his arms and makes a rough, anxious sound, his dick dripping precome all over Roman's hand.

"I could _make_ you beg," Roman says quietly.

Dean doesn't disagree, doesn't say a _word, _flushed and rigid in his lap and it's so fucking encouraging – he can't help but slide his finger against him again. Dean hisses, clutches at Roman's arm and tries to pull it away – his eyes very black, very wild. But he still doesn't beg. Roman can feel his pulse racing as he leans against him; knows that he's afraid of this – knows full well he doesn't let Seth do anything _close_ to this.

"Do you make _him _beg?" Roman asks, and when he doesn't answer he starts stroking steadily at that hot, tight ring of muscle, gently, his finger crooked. Barely, _barely _pressing in on each pass.

Dean starts panting again, his forehead pressed feverishly against Roman's shoulder, his lips parted. He's struggling with himself – struggling with the rules, here – talk or get fucked, basically, is what this boils down to. And Dean Ambrose does _not _get fucked. So –

"Yeah," he blurts, hoarsely. Roman pauses in his ministrations – feels his whole body shudder against him.

"Fucking _yes, _Roman, I make him beg me. He begs me to touch him. He begs me to fucking _stop – _"

And Roman lets his head fall back against the sofa cushions, his brows knitting together, his eyes falling shut. He takes his hand off Dean's ass (and it's fucked up, the way that's a reward) and grinds his palm against himself instead, stroking his dick roughly through his jeans.

"Fucking get it out already, then. Fucking _pricktease –_" Dean hisses.

He's absolutely fucking irrepressible – that dominant streak of his never truly overpowered, merely held at bay. And in the sudden absence of force it has come roaring in once more to fill the void –

"_C'mon_," he snaps, his hand twisting hard over his own dick. "I'm not gonna last much longer."

Roman opens his eyes at this admission. And he holds eye contact as he flicks open the button of his jeans with his thumb – pulls himself out and takes his dick in hand. He's rock hard, fucking aching with arousal as he strokes himself slowly, eyes fixed darkly onto Dean.

"This what you came here for?" he asks, roughly.

"_No_," grits Dean through his teeth, knocking his hand aside and shoving their dicks together. They both exhale shakily at the sensation – fucking velvet heat, pressed up close and aching against each other. Dean thrusts experimentally, dragging his full length up against him with a low, desperate sound.

"I came here to fucking negotiate. You know that."

"So what's this? You getting distracted, Dean?"

And Dean's so obviously _close_ now, panting as he takes Roman's dick in his hands, thick and hot and leaking as he presses it right up against his own – wraps his hands around them both and starts jacking them off together. Roman allows this for a few long, torturous strokes before he takes control. He knocks Dean's hand away, gripping them both together and setting his own pace – hard and brutal and demanding. He wants to push him over the edge, now. He wants to see what he looks like when he's coming.

"This is part of the negotiations." Dean's voice is distinctly unsteady. "I figured – you might need some persuading –"

And he's got a smart mouth on him but he's falling apart very rapidly, now. They're both thrusting up into the same tight heat of Roman's fist, but Dean's hips snap up hard and erratically and he's _moaning – _so fucking shamelessly –

"Persuade me, then," Roman growls, and his hand stills, gripping them both _hard_ and Dean makes a strangled sound of rage and pleasure, his eyes flying wide, his dick fucking dripping, _throbbing_ against Roman's –

"Please –" he chokes out, his hips twisting.

"Please what?" And he stares with undisguised pleasure at Dean, desperate and furious and panting in his lap, his skin flushed and gleaming with sweat. And he's beautiful, completely beautiful like this, undone – laid bare and _begging, _though he never has before, begging Roman for this –

"Fuck, _fuck_ – please can I _come, _you stupid sonofabitch – you fucking bastard – all over your fucking dick – fucking jack you off with it –"

He yanks brutally at Roman's hair, snarling, twisting, trying to rock up into Roman's fist and not getting enough friction. "Fucking _please, _Roman, _c'mon _–"

And Roman groans and relents, his hand pumping a hard, relentless rhythm until Dean's hips buck viciously into his grip, his head flung back, eyes dark and wild. He makes a ragged, desperate sound as he comes, pulsing hard and hot all over Roman's hand, his whole body shuddering violently.

He leans into Roman, panting a low, rough noise on every exhale, his face pressed tightly against the curve of Roman's shoulder.

"Good boy," growls Roman, teasingly.

Dean makes a half-hearted noise of complaint and bites weakly at his collarbone; presses his mouth clumsily against the curve of his shoulder. Pressed up this close to him, Roman can feel how fast his pulse is racing; can feel it knocking against his own heart.

He curls a hand around the back of his neck and holds him there until he stops shuddering, and he stops gasping raggedly for air, and he just rests his forehead feverishly against Roman's shoulder. His pulse does not slow, though, and Roman's keeps time with it.

After a pause Dean's hand shifts down between them. He slides his fingers teasingly through the wetness on Roman's hand and his dick, stroking until his hand is slick with his own come. Roman watches him, his eyes dark as he wraps that hand tight around Roman's dick and starts jacking him off. And _fuck _if that doesn't change everything – that sudden slick, dripping heat, so deliciously fucking _filthy_ –

"We could have this," murmurs Dean, and the pad of his thumb is doing wicked things, smearing his come over the wet, swollen head of Roman's dick until he groans and arches into it. "We could _have_ this, Rome – it could be so fucking good."

But it is difficult to understand – _passing _difficult. Pleasure blazes through Roman's veins like a drug or a poison and his mind is heated with it; stormed with it. He shakes his head as though trying to clear a fog.

"You're talking about Seth," he realises, his voice sounding tight and strange to his own ears. Dean glances at him, amused.

"I'm actually talking about both of us. _All _of us." He slows his pace a little; pumping Roman's cock languidly from base to head and squeezing on the upstroke.

"And you're talking about–" Roman hesitates. He needs to know. "A relationship."

"Yeah," says Dean quietly, and watches him carefully. "The three of us."

"Y_es, _then." And Roman kisses him deeply and intently, his tongue sweeping through Dean's mouth. Tasting him. Claiming him. Dean moans and pulls back, his hand twisting hard and come-slick over Roman's dick.

"_Y_ou should feel what a good little cocksucker he is," he says offhandedly. His mouth is wet and swollen, his eyes very dark – very calculating. He knows Roman very well.

"Tell me."

"Such a clever fucking mouth on him, Rome. You'll see. He lets me fuck his throat until he's choking on my dick – he _asks _for it. Real fucking sweetly, too." He grins, eyes flashing. "I'll get him on his knees for you – would you like that? Get him to unzip those trousers of yours with his teeth? Get him to wrap those pretty fucking lips around this dick of yours?"

"Fuck – _yeah_."

Dean starts pumping him hard and fast, pausing only to spit obscenely on his dick. And Roman thrusts desperately up into that slick, hot mix, so fucking wrong, so fucking _intimate_ –

"Dean – tell me what you do to him –" and a storm is building behind his eyes, deep and tumultuous, very close to breaking –

"Nothing he doesn't _beg _me for – nothing he doesn't fucking _thank_ me for –"

"_Tell _me –"

"I fuck him," Dean hisses, and his fist is slick and hot and tight. "I shove my dick in him whenever I want – I don't even have to fucking ask_,_ I just _take_ it. He gets _off_ on that shit. You should fuck him with me – you should feel how fucking tight he gets when I'm choking him out –"

"Oh, God_–_"

"He lets me do anything I want to him. Fucking _anything_. You should hear him scream, Roman – sometimes he even screams for _you –"_

And oh, god, it's wrong, it's fucking _sick_ – but it pushes him right over the edge and the storm rushes in on him, crashing against his mind and breaking in his veins and he's coming harder than he's ever come in his fucking life – his whole body taut and wracked with pure, shuddering pleasure. He's groaning roughly_,_ his fingers latched tightly onto Dean's hips and sharply yanking him down against him with every pulse of pleasure.

"God," Dean murmurs roughly. "Is _that_ what makes you come? I fucking like _that_."

And then the wave crashes through and past him, leaving Roman reeling in the emptiness, ecstasy singing through his veins. He falls back, panting. After a time he stirs, and speaks.

"Stay here tonight."

A soft bite at his jawline. "Just tonight?"

"Just you, tonight. Seth can move in tomorrow." He prises open an eye and smiles at Dean lazily. "Get him to bring all your stuff round."

A slightly harder bite. "I want the left side of the bed."

"Fine."

Dean pulls back, looking very pleased with himself. "And I want first shower in the mornings."

Roman shrugs, easily. "I'll get you a keycard tomorrow."

And little more needs to be said – Dean slides off his lap with a grin and pads away into the darkness of the bedroom, and Roman hears him set the shower running in the ensuite.

The rain lashes against the windowpanes, and the wind is in the trees. He'll have a shower, and Dean will smoke out of the bedroom window. They'll sleep close together. And the storm will pass over them, and they won't even notice.

Authors notes:

Thanks everyone for your lovely reviews and comments! I hope you've enjoyed reading this fic even half as much as I've enjoyed writing it!


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